


A Thief in the Night

by rosefox



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Minor Alexander Hamilton/Angelica Schuyler, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-09-30 12:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17223743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox/pseuds/rosefox
Summary: Alexander Hamilton is escorting Maria Reynolds home when events take an unexpected turn.





	A Thief in the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jen425](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jen425/gifts).



> Thank you for a very fun prompt!

_Behold, I am coming like a thief. Blessed is the one who remains awake and clothed, so that he will not go naked and let his shame be exposed.  
—Revelation 16:15_

  

The pounding at his door startled Hamilton awake and it took him a moment to place himself: in his office, a pile of papers under his cheek, the feather of his quill almost tickling his nose. The clock showed close to midnight. Angelica and the children were visiting her father, and without her there to chivvy him into bed, he had worked himself to exhaustion.

The knocking came again. The household staff were undoubtedly asleep. He staggered to his feet, ran a hand through his hair, and went to open the door.

"Hello, yes—good God, what's the matter?"

A woman stood there, disheveled—no, bedraggled, damp from the summer rain, with a man's coat held tightly closed over her red dress, no hat or hood, and dark hair a mess of tangles.

"Please, Secretary Hamilton," she said softly, "I know you are a man of honor. I'm so sorry to bother you at home. But I don't know where to go, and I came here all alone—"

"Of course, of course." He gestured her in. Before closing the door, he peered out to see whether someone had seen her enter his house; he had no wish to find his name in the gossip rags. But the street was empty.

He shut the door and turned to see her hanging her coat upon the hallway stand. A rich floral scent wafted toward him. Her dress of shabby red cotton was cut even lower than the current fashion, which he already regarded as somewhat indecent, and her buffont was absent, granting him a generous view of her bosom. He coughed and looked away, red-faced. "May I know your name, madam?" he said to the wall, which was covered with a very nice green striped wallpaper that Angelica had personally selected. He attempted to keep his wife foremost in his mind, as she was the only woman whose charms he ought to be contemplating.

"I am Maria Reynolds," his visitor said, her voice catching. "Though I've no desire to be Reynolds any longer."

Hamilton was no gentleman by birth, but marrying into the aristocracy and working in the government had impressed upon him the importance of genteel decorum, and he could not in good conscience do other than offer the lady a handkerchief. As she wept into it, breasts heaving with her sobs, he wished he had another she might use as a fichu. His breeches were becoming uncomfortable.

Tearfully, Mrs. Reynolds explained that her husband, a most uncouth fellow, had grievously abused her and then departed, leaving her alone and destitute in their humble home. She had come to Hamilton's home with hat in hand, so to speak, having heard he was generous to those in need, especially those with connections to his former home of New-York, where she had been born. She begged him for a small loan. "I promise I'll repay it, sir," she said earnestly. "I've no means at present, but I'm resourceful and certain I will find employment, or perhaps take in lodgers. I only need a few dollars to get me by until then."

By this point, Hamilton would have paid well more than that to be rid of the woman. He half thought this was all a waking dream, or a nightmare. His self-control, never his strongest suit, was at its ebb, and he feared that, did she stay much longer, he would offer her the comforts of the same bed he had foolishly eschewed in order to peruse the latest misguided bill that this shambolic Congress thought to put forward.

He rummaged in the drawers of his desk and came up with thirty Continental dollars, not a small sum to someone in dire straits but not so much that Angelica—yes, he must think of Angelica, must think only of Angelica, or of the Virgin Mary or anyone who was not this alluring woman—would inquire as to where it had gone. He pressed the notes into Mrs. Reynolds's hands. "I hope this will go some small way toward easing the pain of your husband's egregious behavior," he said.

"Oh, yes, sir, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed, carefully folding the notes and tucking them into the cleft of her bosom. Hamilton shuddered. The proximity of currency and womanly flesh, his two great passions, was almost too much to bear.

"I beg of you, madam, permit me to show you to the door," he said, carefully holding her gaze and not looking down. "The hour is late, and I must take to my bed." What he planned to do there, in solitude, he felt no need to explain to her.

"Of course, sir," she said. And then, hesitantly, "But it _is_ late, and the fog is dreadful, so that the lamps are dimmed. I could hardly make my way here. I fear to be alone, especially with so much money on my person." She pressed a hand to her chest in illustration, and gave him a pleading look.

Cursing his acquired manners but genuinely unwilling to send her back out alone, though he thought her fears of being accosted were quite unlikely to be realized, he helped Mrs. Reynolds into her coat—her departed husband's coat, presumably, though it did nothing to disguise her female shape—and donned his own coat and hat, and took up a lantern and lit it. He carefully locked the door behind them, recollecting that some nearby homes had been burgled recently. Offering Mrs. Reynolds his arm, to which she clung much as her damp dress clung to her body, and lifting the lantern high, he set out on what she promised would be a short walk.

As they approached an alley, a cloaked figure detached itself from the shadows and advanced toward them. "Good evening," the man said, his rough voice muffled by the scarf wound about his face. A hat pulled low further obscured his features. "A bit late for a stroll, isn't it?"

Mrs. Reynolds shrank back behind Hamilton, who wished mightily that he had thought to bring a pistol. "Let us pass," he said sternly, as though that pistol were in fact in his pocket. Sometimes a show of strength sufficed.

But not in this instance, for the man gave a low chuckle. "To pass the gatekeeper you must pay the toll," he said. "I'll have that fine watch of yours, to start." And then there was a knife in his hand, its blade gleaming in the lantern light.

"I'll give you what you want," Hamilton said quickly, "but leave the lady unharmed."

"I don't see a _lady_ ," the footpad sneered. "Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. Found another sheep to fleece?"

Mrs. Reynolds gasped, it seemed in outrage as much as fear. "I have done nothing of the sort, sir! Who are you to accuse me so?"

"No one of consequence," the man said. He gestured with the knife. "Put that lantern down, and then up against the wall, both of you."

To Hamilton's utter shock, the man seemed to know exactly where he kept his valuables, divesting him rapidly of watch and fob, wallet, rings, and brooch without a fumble. He also did not hesitate to plunge his hand deep into the valley of Mrs. Reynolds's bosom and emerge with the wad of notes. "You come cheap," he observed, "letting a man pay you with Continentals. But I suppose it's all you're worth."

Her tears had vanished. "How dare you handle me so," she said, her voice quivering with rage.

"Is it not how you planned to be handled this evening?" he asked. "And then to blackmail the good Secretary for far more than thirty dollars. Tch, Mrs. Reynolds. For shame."

Hamilton stared first at the man—how could he know the value of the folded notes, at which he had not even glanced after pulling them from their hiding place? For that matter, how had he known where to find them?—and then at the woman he had found so compelling and aided so generously. She could not meet his gaze.

"Is this true?" he demanded.

"It is, sir," she confessed. "But I swear my husband put me up to it, threatened me—"

"Then I will see the both of you jailed!" His rage was fueled by his shame over how nearly he had allowed himself to fall victim to his own lusts.

"Ah ah," the footpad cautioned. "No crime has been committed as yet. Except by me." He snickered. Hamilton frowned. Something about the voice, the laugh, was familiar. "And we'll keep it that way." He handed Hamilton the lantern and touched the tip of his knife to the brim of his hat in a mocking salute. "See the _lady_ home, and then return to yours with all haste. And keep your clothes on, for God's sake."

He disappeared into the alley. Hamilton stood there for a moment, stunned, and then made to follow—but when he lifted the lantern, he saw the alley held only crates and shadows. The footpad had vanished entirely.

Mrs. Reynolds slowly came up beside him. This time he did not offer her his arm. They walked to her home in silence; she did not invite him in, nor did he attempt to follow her. As soon as the door closed behind her, he turned on his heel and went back the way they'd come.

The thief had at least left him his house-key. He unlocked the door, put out the lantern, and divested himself of coat and hat in a daze. Why had he known that voice? How had the man known so much? Whence had he come, and where had he gone?

The trials of the evening had left him exhausted, and all earlier notions of pleasuring himself were fled. He walked into his bedroom, thinking only of sleep, and stopped dead.

In a little pile on his pillow were his watch and fob, wallet, rings, and brooch, along with the folded Continentals. And a note.

_You're welcome. —A. Ham., circa 1822._

He caught it up, gaping. It was indisputably his writing, his signature. And the door had been locked! He was certain of it!

He sank down into a chair, head whirling. _A. Ham., circa 1822._ Benjamin Franklin, God rest his soul, had spoken to him once of some fanciful notion about voyaging through time as one might take a carriage from New York to Philadelphia, and meeting people, or even one's own self, from the past or future. But such things were clearly impossible.

And yet.

Hamilton shivered all over and then swept the objects from his pillow and set them on the bedside table. No sense would be made of this while he was in such a state of weariness. He would sleep, and contemplate it in the morning.

He slept like the dead, and was woken only by Billings knocking on his door at seven o'clock, far later than he was accustomed to rise. He dressed in haste, had a mouthful of breakfast, and dashed off for a day of meetings. Only that evening, as he returned to his office with its pile of papers, did he recollect the strange events of the night before. Even with a clear head, he could not understand any of it. 

But as he turned the puzzle over in his mind, one thing became apparent: Maria Reynolds, devious though she might be, was being manipulated by her villainous husband, and could well be in danger from him now that her scheme had failed to bear fruit. Though she no longer stood before him, Hamilton still felt that obligation to treat her as a gentleman ought to treat a lady in distress.

He drew a clean sheet of paper from the stack and wrote, _To Mrs. Reynolds. A Gift from a Friend._ He placed the banknotes, which still bore traces of her beguiling scent, upon the page, and then folded it, sealed it (with a plain, unmarked seal), and addressed it.

"Billings," he called. His manservant appeared at the office door. "Deliver this tonight, please. It's only a short walk away. No need to wait for a reply."

"Yes, sir," Billings said. He departed with the missive.

Hamilton leaned back in his chair, contemplating the notion of still being alive in 1822. Why, he'd be an old man. He'd never really expected to live so long, between the war and his penchant for dueling. But he had to admit the idea appealed to him, now that he had more to live for. A clever and beautiful wife, two kind and lovely sisters-in-law, delightful children, a career any man might envy, the honor of serving his fledgling nation and the pure intellectual delight of crafting its banking and financial systems... yes, he would rather like to end his days old and tottery, with great-grandchildren playing at his feet, looking back on a long and satisfying life.

Perhaps, some thirty years hence, he would meet a man like Benjamin Franklin with fanciful dreams of voyages through time. Perhaps he would find himself on a Philadelphia street one foggy night, silvered hair covered by a hat and wrinkled face hidden behind a scarf. After all, what man had not dreamed of confronting his foolish youthful self and knocking some sense into him before a grievous error could be made? He imagined it would be deeply satisfying, and chuckled at the thought.

His laughter sounded precisely like the footpad's.

Alexander Hamilton went into his bedroom, where the confounding note still lay by his bed. He carefully folded it and tucked it into his wallet. Staring at wallpaper and thinking of Angelica had not sufficed to keep him from putting himself—and her—at risk, to his great shame. But he felt certain that this little scrap of paper with the number _1822_ , and its promise of future joys, would serve to keep him on the path of righteousness no matter how tempted he might be to stray.

Smiling, he returned to his office, and his work. He had a lifetime's legacy to craft, and there was no time like the present to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows the musical chronology rather than the _even more salacious_ events of Hamilton's actual life. (Maria Reynolds first visited him while his wife and children were home!) The Reynolds affair may not have led directly to his death several years later, but I do think he would have had a lot more to live for had he not been embroiled in a scandal, and had Philip not died trying to defend Hamilton's honor. Who knows—maybe Philip, who reportedly inherited his father's brilliance, is the one who ends up inventing time travel in 1822. In this timeline, anything is possible.


End file.
